You were tucked into your usual spot on the second floor, the one by the window with the good light and the slightly wobbly table. Your chemistry textbook was open to a chapter that might as well have been written in ancient Sumerian.

The only unusual thing was the figure who had just claimed the large study table in the center of the floor. A shock of white hair, impossible to miss, bent over a spread of thick, dense-looking books. He’d been there for an hour, motionless except for the occasional furious scribble in a notebook.

Then, without looking up, he reached for the tall stack of books beside him. His fingers missed the one on top, sending the whole precarious tower sliding across the polished table with a sound like a landslide.

Several heavy volumes hit the floor with a series of decisive thumps. One skidded right to a stop against the leg of your chair.